


Scars

by Saitaina



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saitaina/pseuds/Saitaina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sealand ponders scars and what they mean for a nation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Scars**

Sealand had heard about 'Grandpapa Roma' from Italy, about how the great Empire fell, body too old, too weak, too broken to keep together. How the scars and broken pieces tore the nation apart from the inside out until he collapsed and died. Sealand had run from Italy then, ran and ran, tears streaming down his face as he burst into England's home, clinging to the older nation, begging him not to fall apart.

Because England had scars too. Lots and lots of scars, criss crossing his body like demented train tracks, stopping only where huge chunks of flesh were actually missing from England's body, torn from him and cast aside, forgotten to time. Sealand had once wondered if America and himself had been one of those pieces ripped from England, one of the many places that were...but no longer was.

Then there was America's scars. His older brother didn't have as many, but one glaringly obvious one that wrapped around his waist like a thick, fleshy belt. It bisected America, taking detours up and down every now and again, following some demented map that no one was quite sure of anymore. It was old, thick and pale, and his brother claimed it didn't bother him anymore, but every once in a while, when no one but Sealand was looking, the young nation could see America wince in pain, rubbing his stomach or hip, breathing hard through the pain from the old wound.

Sealand often wondered about the other nations, about the scars they carried. None of them showed them off (even when he asked) and the few glimpses he did get, he never learned their stories, heard the tales of why they were broken, bleeding...hiding the pain of things long since past.

Sealand bit his lip in pain, watching as England applied another layer of cream to his shoulder and arm, only releasing a whimper as the rough, cotton bandage was wrapped around the dark red burn across his his body. It hurt, less then it had at the beginning, but burns were one of the worst wounds when it came to pain and each movement over his chest, be it from the bandaging or Sealand's own breathing and motion brought fresh shock waves of agony.

"Stay still," America whispered softly in Sealand's ear, gently brushing his fingers through the soft blond strands of the boy's hair. "It'll feel better soon,"

The older nations gave the boy a sad, pitying look as England finished bandaging Sealand's wounds, gently taping the edges of the cotton bandage, giving the rarest, soft kiss to Sealand's shoulder, the worst of the injury.

When the fire had broken out, Sealand had been curled up asleep on the couch, sleeping off a day of sun and fishing when he suddenly started screaming, thrashing around until he managed to throw himself onto the floor, landing his own injury beyond that of what was going on with his people. It had taken two hours of America and England holding the boy down, trying to keep him from doing any more damage to himself in his misery before the boy stilled, passing out from the pain, tears slipping down his cheeks as he cried for his small population.

Now he sat, curled between his brother's, finally, accepted, cared for, with his first scar to prove himself...and all he wanted to do, was go back to that morning, when his biggest pain was America stealing all the chocolate ice-cream and England ignoring him as he spoke.


End file.
